


Ice-Blessed

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1)



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Jotun Culture, Jotunn!Loki, M/M, Worldbuilding, loki goes to jotunheim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the norsekink meme <a href="http://norsekink.livejournal.com/8195.html?thread=16953859#t16953859"> here</a> : - Instead of confronting Odin about his blueness -he expects to be cut off or his concerns swept under the rug, as usual- Loki pops back over to Jotunhiem, kidnaps a random frost giant (or not so random, author can decide) for interrogation.</p><p>Cue revelations and awkward silences. Even better if Loki doesn't figure out he's Laufey's runt, because the first thing you think of when meeting a smaller-than-expected long-lost giant is more along the lines of "Where did you come from, you poor, poor, kidnapped thing." and not "*Gasp* You must be the king's sacrificial baby!"</p><p>And then Odin finally succumbs to Odinsleep leaving an empty throne, because Loki's freaking out in Jotunhiem being fed ice chips by his strangely sympathetic captive.</p><p>Bonus if pygmy frost giants aren't actually all that rare, just a minority that is usually too small to be considered part of the warrior caste- unless they have major magic skills to make up for lack of size.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently being written over at the Thor Kink Meme, and I'll be posting it here in blocks of about 10k words. Not sure how often/regular that will be though. I really oughtn't be working on two fics at once, but I really couldn't help myself.

Thor has been banished. That had never been in the plan. His big, well-meaning idiot of a brother is gone for who knows how long and yet all Loki can think about is a moment on Jotunheim where he saw something out of a nightmare. It preys on his mind, that moment. The strong grasp around his forearm, a shuddering cold that broke the metal and leathers clean off, yet became naught but slightly chill skin when it touched his own. And then the spreading blue that he might, _might_ have been able to blame on his magic if it weren’t for the raised lines of Jotnar lineage-markings that came with it. 

He fears what it might mean. Loki would like to blame a curse, but somehow that seems too neat, too easy, and besides who has the skill and the motive to place such a powerful thing on him? Certainly not the Jotun who touched him. Nor any of the other warriors so boldly attacking their party; if they’d had that level of skill they would not be rushing in with the same lack of subtlety as Thor and the others. 

But the alternative... the alternative is too terrible to contemplate. Yet he still has to _know_ , to find out the truth of the matter, wherever that path leads. At first he considered asking his father, but Odin has been in an ill mood ever since he sent Thor to Midgard and his time of Odinsleep is already well overdue. Loki does not want to burden him with further cares, not to mention that the last time he had tried to speak to him Father had cut him off with that awful growl of anger. Loki hates it when he does that. Loki’s problems are his own, and he should deal with them by himself, as he always has done in the past.

There is only one course of action available that he can see. Jotunheim may be off limits via the Bifrost, but he has not needed to rely on that for a long time. He will have to be very careful, for if he’s caught after what Thor has done, he is sure to make hostilities even worse. He wouldn’t even risk it if he wasn’t entirely confident of his own abilities. He can cloak himself in his magic and make himself invisible to even the keenest of eyes. Heimdall shall not see him, and nor shall any Jotun. Then he will be able to get close enough to capture one of them, bind them with his powers and transport them somewhere safe and secluded where he can question them about what he saw. 

It is far from the most subtle of his plans, but it will have to do. He simply can’t stand the fear clawing at his stomach for much longer, else he might very well go mad. Everyone on Asgard is far too busy gossiping about Thor; they will not notice his absence. That will give him enough time to find the truth and then... Well, that will depend on the truth. 

\----

Passage through the dark paths and less known ways of Yggdrasil can be tiring for one who has not the practise and skill to navigate them. Loki however is not such a one. He arrives on Jotunheim in the midst of wasteland, far on the outskirts of the ruined city that one was Laufey’s stronghold. From the slight hill where he stands he can see the shattered expanse of ice broken by Mjolnir’s great blow being re-grown, foot by painful foot. A chasm gapes beneath it, deep and wide, shadowed dark such that it appears bottomless. Loki shivers. For the first time it occurs to him to wonder how many of the Jotnar fell into that pit.

He makes sure the woven spells that hide him are bound tight fast before he sets off. Before, they came during the night, but now the weak light of a far-off sun shines off ice and drifts of snow. This is a world of white, grey and pale blues. There is, he supposes, a stark kind of beauty in it, but he cannot imagine living here for any length of time. Compared to Asgard’s finery, its golden buildings and eternal summer, this is a miserable place indeed. 

To his right, a canyon of ice gapes wide. Loki takes care not to go too near it, for fear the shelf of ice may turn thin and treacherous. However there are other dangers; the landscape is rough and broken, jagged, sharp-edged. He must pick his way around the worst of it, and it slows his progress. Perhaps he ought to have brought himself through somewhere closer... But the fear of being caught terrifies him despite his assurance in his magic. He’s not even sure who would be angrier, Laufey or his father. It’s far too late to turn back now though. 

After perhaps a half-hours walking he has reached the plateau. The broken spires of the city loom perhaps half a mile to his left, and dotted along the rim of the crevasse are a number of Jotnar, intent on their work. Loki watches them, trying to decide which he should pick. How can he tell what a knowledgeable monster looks like? They all look the same. Similar heights, similar brutish features, similar styles of dress with their short layered kilts, scrappy odds and ends of bronzed metal armour seeming almost frozen onto their skin, the harsh spikes and short curves of their headgear. The only things telling them apart are the raised lines on their skin.

The Jotnar nearest him has been joined by one of its fellows. The newcomer looks older, its face lined, skin sagging a little in places. They exchange greetings, friendly seeming. There is an affectionate slap on the back with the kind of force Loki is used to seeing amongst Asgard’s warriors. The elder passes something to the other – food, it soon appears, as the Jotun raises it to its mouth. They seem to be talking about the repair work, if the expansive gestures are anything to go by. 

Perhaps this is some kind of overseer, Loki thinks. It would make sense, to have an older, more experienced Jotun co-ordinating the others. If any of them are able to answer his questions, this is the most likely candidate. 

Decision made, he waits for his target to continue on his route, ready to set his plan in action. Fixing the shape of his illusion in his mind, he stalks the Jotun’s steps until he judges they are out of sight of any of the monsters nearby. Then he wraps the spell around him, layer on top of layer, and walks out into the open, taking care to make noise enough to attract attention. 

The Jotun turns to look at him, sees the false-form of the one it has just left. “Is there something the matter Dröfn?” it asks, seeming concerned. 

“No... well, perhaps,” Loki lies. “I think it’s best if you come and see.”

“Very well. Though quite what trouble you’ve managed to get into in the past few minutes I don’t know,” the Jotun says with a smile. It follows Loki off between hillocks of rough ice. 

His magic is ready. A spell to bind one of the Jotnar is no mean thing, and it will be draining, but it is a price Loki is well willing to pay. Soon he will have all the answers he seeks, luck willing. He prepares to strike. 

\----

Loki tries to keep calm while he waits for the Jotun to awaken, but he finds himself pacing up and down despite his best efforts. He has transported himself and his prisoner back to the wastelands using magic, out to a sheltered spot he had passed on his way in, bound on three sides by crags of ice twice the height of even the largest Jotun. It is isolated enough that there’s little risk of them being found, and with his powers and a full complement of viciously sharp throwing knives hidden about his person he has no doubt he can stop his captive if it tries to escape. 

A small change in the Jotun’s breathing alerts him to the fact that it is no longer unconscious. Loki waits for a moment to see what it will do; keeping his back turned and pretending he is unaware of its waking. Even though his conjured ropes hold it fast, he is expecting it to react badly, an explosion of rage much like something his brother would do in a similar situation. But there is nothing. In confusion, he looks round. 

The Jotun is watching him, blood-red eyes calm. It sits quietly, not even straining to test the strength of its bonds. 

“Are you going to kill me, little Aesir?” it asks. 

“That is not my plan,” Loki replies, feeling somehow uneasy. In his few dealings with the Jotnar – inviting them into the weapons vault and the tense moments before the fight in Laufey’s throne-room – his impressions have been that the soldiers are naught but more monstrous versions of Asgard’s warriors, with Laufey as the only exception, the only real threat. But this one is not reacting like a brute. 

_Well, you said you wanted a clever one,_ he tells himself. 

“Is that not the way an Aesir must prove themselves warriors?” the Jotun says. “By slaying some great foe on a quest. Though it is true that killing me this way would not make a very good saga to sing around the table.”

“So perhaps I should untie you and fight you honourably, is that it?” Loki asks with a smile. 

“Or perhaps you will tell me why you are really here. You are not a typical Aesir, I can see.” It is said mildly enough, but Loki still feels the sting of it, echo of oft-quoted words from Asgard’s court and his brother’s companions, not to mention it pricks at his most recent fears. “Why have you come such a long way from home, little Aesir?”

Pale-faced, Loki pulls his glove from his hand. “To find out the truth,” he says, approaching his prisoner. He would like to blame his trembling on the cold, but he knows that would be a lie. The Jotun tries to jerk back, eyes going wide in astonishment as he touches its broad chest, palm over its heart. “About this.”

The change creeps slowly up his arm, Aesir ivory transforming to dusky blue. He can feel it under his clothes by the sudden loss of Jotunheim’s chill, knows when it reaches his face by the way contrasts suddenly wash out, shadows becoming clearer, glare reduced. His breath no longer frosts the air. It comes out as cold as when it went in. 

“Is this a curse?” he asks, unable to look away from the place where they touch, blue skin to blue skin. He barely recognises the sound of his own voice. 

“I do not believe so, no,” the Jotun says slowly. Loki cannot bring himself to look at its face, see... whatever its reaction might be. 

“Then it really is as I feared,” he says, feeling like he wants to cry. “I really am a monster.”

“You are not,” his captive says sharply. “I am sure that is what they told you, what they raised you believing, but we are no more monsters than they are.”

“We?” Loki’s laugh is breathy and broken, torn out of him. “We? How can this be? How can I be...” He cannot force himself to say ‘a Jotun’, but nor does he want to again acknowledge that he is a monster. 

“Yes, I suppose you would be of an age for it...” the Jotun says, mostly to itself. Then; “They must have stolen you after the last battle. When the city was lost, and the Casket taken. What were they thinking?” it says with sudden anger. “To take you away from your home? From your family?”

“A... a _trophy_ ,” Loki says. Everything is making a terrible, horrible kind of sense. Why he has never belonged, why Odin has always favoured Thor over the younger, lesser son. The _Jotun_ son. “Just another stolen relic.” He pulls his hand back, banishing his binding spell as he does so. He has the answers he was seeking, so what matters it now if his prisoner decided to take revenge for the kidnapping. What matters it if a monster kills another monster?

To his surprise, instead of violence what he receives instead are long arms wrapping around him, bringing him into a strong embrace. Loki stills, shocked. To his Jotnar form the other is almost warm, comforting. 

“Oh little one, what have they done to you?” 

Loki lets out a sob, but though his eyes and throat burn with bitter emotion, no tears fall. He is not entirely sure Jotnar are capable of crying. 

“What do I do now?” he asks helplessly. “I can’t go back, not like this. If the rest of Asgard find out I’m a monster...”

“ _Not_ a monster,” the Jotun says, drawing back enough to look him in the eyes. “But after so long in Asgard’s hands, I can understand how you might think so. Do you think _I_ am a monster?”

Loki is not about to admit that he does. He doesn’t understand this strange, overly-affectionate Jotun. Nothing about any of this makes sense. 

The Jotun makes a thoughtful sort of noise. “Of course you cannot see us as people. You have never known us, you see a horde, not individuals. Perhaps it will help you if I tell you that my name is Rán and that the warrior whose form you took to trick me was Dröfn, child of my body, one of nine I bore with my bed-mate Ægir before the war took him.”

“That you bore?” Loki asks. “Do you mean to say that you’re female?” He thinks not much will be able to surprise him after everything that he has found out. Rán laughs. 

“Jotnar have only one gender. Any of us may bear a child, if we wish it.”

Loki thinks back to a certain horse a century past and the rather unexpected events that had followed. 

“You know, that explains a lot.”

“So you see,” Rán says, settling back to sit cross-legged. “You are Jotnar, yes, but it is up to you what that means. You are not a monster.” Even like this – his? His, Loki decides, if only for simplicity, and because he can’t really think of _himself_ any other way – head is higher than Loki’s own. Bad enough to be a Jotun, but apparently he is a runt of one as well. 

“So what _do_ I do now?” he asks. He feels completely drained, wrung out and exhausted. Rán may have done his best to assure him that being Jotnar is not so terrible a thing, but Loki is not so sure he can just accept it so easily. He can’t even _think_ rationally just now. Odin is not his real father. Odin has been lying to him for centuries. Bad enough that he’s a mon... that he’s a Jotun, he’s not even a _prince_. 

“After such a shock you need something to eat and a place to rest,” Rán says, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “If you do not object, I would be pleased to offer you my hospitality. I may not have much that would suit someone used to Aesir food, but I am sure I can manage something.”

Loki feels pathetically relieved. He just wants to curl up in a corner somewhere warm and ignore the world. 

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it. “I would be glad to accept.”

\----

Rán’s dwelling is at the edge of the city, where the buildings are smaller but the damage is less. Loki is able to bring them part of the way through the shadow-paths, but he does not know the area well enough to risk a complete journey. Those particular methods of travel are not without their dangers. 

“My children and I spend the summers here where we can be close to court, the palace guard and the army,” Rán tells him, as they walk through the lonely streets between shattered pillars and houses partly smashed open, missing walls or roofs. “Our winter home is many miles from here, by the frozen seas. Ægir and I came both from fishing domains you see – indeed, our families were quite pleased when we decided to unite out lines.”

Loki frowns. “But how can you fish? Did you not just say that the oceans are frozen?” 

Rán smiles. It is strange, seeing such an expression on a Jotun’s face. Loki admits that he has never really believed Jotnar capable of any kind of positive emotion prior to this. But surely his own existence proves that not the case, even without Rán’s example. He’d like to think he’d have been wise enough to see that even if they’d never met. “Delve deep enough, and there is water. Of course, one must get used to climbing stairs.”

Loki tries to imagine it; the ice here must be perhaps three hundred fathoms thick, maybe more. They would have to live down there the majority of the time; no easy trek to ascend to the surface. Months without seeing the sun. He can hardly conceive of someone willingly adopting that kind of lifestyle. 

“Ah,” Rán says, interrupting his semi-horrified musings. “Here we are.”

A tall opening is set in a wall of ice to their right. Behind it there is a courtyard of fair size, even allowing for Jotnar scale, and on the far side, a tall building with many windows, rough and cragged as so much of this realm’s architecture appears to be. Loki cannot tell whether it is particularly fine by Jotunheim’s standards. Certainly it is far more intact than Laufey’s palace. 

“Hrönn, Dúfa and Bylgja are likely to be at home by this hour,” Rán says. “Dröfn, Kólga, Hefring and Himinglæva are working on repairing the ice the Aesir’s fool-hardy warrior prince destroyed. They will not return for another hour or so.” Loki smiles at hearing this rather accurate description of Thor. But though it is something he has long known, he isn’t quite sure if he likes that it’s a Jotun speaking ill of Asgard’s prince. Yet was that not what _he_ was doing, whenever he criticized the one he thought was his brother? Were his own words really cruelties spurred on by his own nature? It is a sudden fear not easily dispelled.

“Uðn and Blóðughadda are old enough to have households of their own,” Rán continues, distracting him from the dark turn his thoughts have suddenly taken. “and so I see them only on festival days. But such are the perils of family life.” The Jotun sighs, and looks down at Loki. “I do not know how those who took you from us treated you,” he says quietly. “But I hope that you had occasion to know a family’s love. It is a blessing, but I know it’s one not all are lucky enough to possess.” 

Loki has to close his eyes against the sudden flood of emotion, a tidal surge in the stormy sea of his mind. “I thought I did,” he says, “or, or at least I thought that if my F...Father treated me as second best, at least my brother would always love me. But now? He _hates_ Jotnar, when he finds out what I am...” If he ever returns from Midgard, that is. But even if he never does, Loki knows how he would react. If he ever saw Loki’s true face, his true – hah – _colours_ Loki’s fate would be a swift blow from Mjolnir spelling his doom. He could not bear to see Thor look at him with disgust. 

“I am sorry,” Rán says, putting a comforting hand on Loki’s shoulder, even though their size difference means that it does not quite fit. “It is not fair that such upsetting circumstances have come upon you. I suppose there is no good way to find out you are not what you thought. I will not give you false hope, but perhaps your brother may yet surprise you.”

“But he’s _not_ my brother is he? That’s the whole problem!” Loki says, a little hysterically. He breathes deeply, trying to master himself. It would hardly do to run into Rán’s children an emotional mess. 

“Family can be more than blood. From what you have said, you were very close to this Aesir, and are not the closest of friends said to be like brothers?”

“Shouldn’t you be trying to get me to forget Asgard and trying to persuade me to stay with my own kind?” Loki asks, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

“That choice is yours to make,” Rán tells him. “You must go where you think you will be happiest. I might prefer it if you could make Jotunheim your own, but only because I think you might find that here. But I may as easily be wrong. Now,” – a heavy pat from that over-large hand – “I promised you something to eat.”

\----

“Hello Father,” the Jotun sitting at the wide, high table says. His fingers are moulding a large chunk of ice into strange shapes, soft curls, ovals and circles. Loki can’t make out any kind of purpose in it. “Oh, who’s your friend?” He sounds surprised, but not as surprised as Loki would have expected a runt of a Jotun to elicit. 

“That is a complicated story,” Rán says, “and not mine to tell. But he is a guest, and I have offered him our hospitality. Please Hrönn, make him feel welcome.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of the _iviðjur_ south of Þrymheimr,” Hrönn says, leaning over the table. Loki cannot help but feel uncomfortable under the regard of those red eyes, still alien and monstrous-seeming. There is confusion too; for _iviðjur_ seems to be one of those rare words that the All-tongue does not translate. “Not that I mean to pry into your business,” the Jotun adds quickly. 

“Where are Dúfa and Bylgja?” Rán asks. 

“Dúfa went to the marketplace,” Hrönn replies. “Bylgja is in his room again. I think he’s meditating. You know how he gets – ‘you must become _one_ with the ice’.” He looks down, and though Loki isn’t sure, he thinks he might be biting his lip. It’s an oddly vulnerable look. “I don’t know why he bothers. All the ‘Oneness’ in the world won’t do us any good with the Casket lost. Sorry,” he adds, speaking to Loki, and for one completely bewildered moment he thinks he’s apologising because he knows that Loki’s false-father is the one who stole it. “I know Angrboða thinks differently, I didn’t mean to give insult to your liege-lord.”

“I took no offence,” Loki says, finding refuge in bluffing. He is beginning to get the idea that there is a lot more going on here than he anticipated. 

“Come,” Rán says, “I will show you the larder. I do not know what foods you favour, so you will have to pick them out.” _And allow me to ask you some more questions without your child hearing them_ , Loki realises. He must remember not to underestimate the Jotun’s cunning. But in truth he hardly has the strength for questions. He just wants a few morsels of food, and then the promised bed. 

Time for questions later. 

\----

Loki eats sparsely of a few pieces of unidentifiable dried meat, assures Rán that he has no more questions for that night, and finally, _finally_ gets to a bed. He is so emotionally exhausted by this point that he takes very little notice of the room his host escorts him to, other than to note that the bed is made of ice, laid over with thick massive pelts of soft luxurious fur. The moment he flops down, curling up into a ball, unbothered in this form by the feel of ice against his skin, he is asleep. 

Loki wakes the next morning feeling much refreshed, but he only has to open his eyes and see the unfamiliar blue skin of his hand resting atop the furs near his head before it all comes flooding back. He burrows back into the dark beneath the pelts, half hoping that he’ll find himself waking up back in Asgard to discover that all this was nothing more than a terrible dream. But he knows it’s real. This is the truth. He is a little stolen Jotnar runt, half of one world, half of another and truly belonging to neither. 

Eventually though hunger gets the better of shame, and he is forced to rise. From the quality of the light streaking in through the massive open window, he judges it must be early morning. The room he is in is constructed from the same dark ice as the rest of Jotunheim’s buildings, including the furnishings. Everything is scaled too large for him; it is a room designed for Jotnar with all their height. The wall facing him has been carved or shaped into a writhing mass of interlocking shapes. He can make out animals and the suggestion of a landscape, but it has the same abstract sensibilities as the pattern-language used to direct magic on Asgard. It is a strange feeling to see something so familiar and yet so alien. 

Loki makes his way off the too-tall bed, realising that he has been sleeping in his clothes. Well, it isn’t as though he brought any others with him, and he can’t imagine himself wearing the simple, basic kilts and armour the Jotnar seem to favour, assuming they even had something in his size. He casts a quick refreshing spell upon himself, and heads to find his host. 

Rán proves to be in the dining hall, surrounded by his brood. Loki hesitates at the entrance. Meeting Hrönn the day before was a challenge enough; he’s not sure he wants to be the target of another six Jotuns’ attention. He watches the scene for a moment, half-hidden behind one of the pillars at the edges of the opening. The morning meal appears to be a kind of soup or stew with the consistency of porridge, sticky and pale in colour, almost seeming to glow with luminescence. He hasn’t the faintest idea what it is. 

It isn’t long before he is spotted. One of the Jotnar he doesn’t know looks up and catches sight of him, then immediately turns to Rán, who is sitting at the head of the table, and says in a voice loud enough to carry, “Father, your guest is awake.”

“ _Our_ guest, Bylgja,” Rán corrects him. Apparently this is the meditative one, which Loki would not have expected from the sheer mass of him. Rán gets to his feet, grabbing a stray smaller bowl as he leaves and heads towards Loki, patting several of his children on the back or shoulders casually as he passes by. Loki isn’t sure if all Jotnar are so affectionate or whether it is simply a characteristic of Rán in particular, but it somehow makes him feel a little better that it hasn’t just been something the Jotun is doing for him out of pity. 

“I don’t imagine you will want to breakfast with all of us,” Rán says to him once he reaches the doorway, smiling. “Don’t worry. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. Besides, you will no doubt want to ask your questions now that you are rested and your head is a little clearer.” 

“True enough,” Loki says, running a hand through his hair. It is tangled with sleep, and he has no comb but his fingers. If he had something of a suitable material to transfigure... Oh, he _is_ an idiot. Here he is surrounded by ice, the most natural element for a Jotun to shape... His thought runs into the tangle of loathing he thought he had been adequately suppressing and he jerks his mind away from it with a wince. No. He doesn’t want to do anything else that will remind him of his curséd heritage. A little wildness about his appearance is nothing compared to... that. 

“I know it is not what you are used to,” Rán says as they walk, offering him the bowl, “but I thought you might like to try it. If it is not to your taste...”

“No, I’ll see what it’s like,” Loki says, accepting it. The bowl is another thing shaped from ice, and while it seems designed for someone of about his size, it is still massive and heavy in his hands. The spoon is more of a ladle. Cautiously he takes a bite. 

He is not sure what he was expecting, but the flavour is both surprisingly delicate and pleasant, with enough body to be satisfying. He digs in more boldly, trying to analyse the taste. It doesn’t seem to match anything he’s ever had on Asgard. 

“This is good,” he says. Rán seems pleased. 

“Here,” the Jotun says, leading him into another massive room. Several large benches are scattered around a central area where a strange crystal structure seems to have almost grown from the floor. It catches scattered light in its facets, but there is something undeniably... dead... about it. Rán catches him looking at it and sighs. “Just another thing lost without the Casket to power it.”

Loki looks down. What can he say? He cannot be sorry that Odin took the Casket, for the war would surely have started again if Laufey had been allowed to keep it. The Jotnar – creatures like himself – cannot be trusted with power. That is what he has always been told. They will by their very nature misuse it. He now understands much of Odin’s treatment of him. 

Rán settles down not on one of the benches but by the window, where there are seats padded with a different kind of pelt. His host sits down on the floor next to it with his legs crossed, leaving the seat for Loki – a large-ish jump up, but hardly unmanageable. It serves to put their heads somewhat nearer the same height. 

“So,” Rán says, “questions.”

Loki nods, putting down the now-empty bowl and marshalling his thoughts. “You have never asked me for my name,” he begins. “Why?”

“I did not wish to press you to tell me something you did not feel comfortable revealing. Besides, the name of whatever Aesir took you from us, whether it were a common soldier or an officer or even one of their court, might be remembered even now. Your full name would reveal theirs. It might put you in an awkward position.”

That is something of an understatement, Loki reflects. It is probably for the best, yes. Even if he did not name himself by the lie Odinsson, the name of Loki might indeed by known, the name of a Prince. Not that he would have given either of those names if pressed, yet there is a part of him that is grateful not to have had to lie. 

“Do you want to know it?” he asks. 

“I do not mind you keeping your secrets,” Rán says, and though he does not laugh, mirth is clear in his eyes. “And besides, in Laufey’s city I only need say ‘little one’ or ‘ _iviðjur_ ’ and it will be clear who I am talking to.”

“About that,” Loki says, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment and having no idea what it looks like against his changed skin. “Your child Hrönn called me by that name. What did he mean by it? Or is that just what you call a runt?” The last word comes out with surprising bitterness. He looks away. 

Rán looks a little surprised, and then apologetic. “I am sorry,” he says. “I have hurt you. Please accept my apologies. I did not think, and so I did not realise that you would not know about your heritage – your specific heritage, I mean. The _iviðjur_ are the sorcerer-folk, the tribes of tundra and forest, and the people at least one of your parents must have come from, judging from your size and the skill with magic you have already demonstrated.”

Loki isn’t sure what surprises him more; that his stature is natural, expected, or that his knack for sorcery is also a Jotnar trait. Magic is certainly not something he has ever associated with the Jotnar, aside from that inherent in the Casket of Ancient Winters. Magic has always set him apart from the majority of Asgard though, so in many ways this too makes sense, is just another part of the slowly emerging puzzle that is his true self. 

“So that’s what I am,” he says, wonderingly. “ _Iviðjur_.” There is something about it that seems somehow... _right_. “But if my... uh, _tribe_ lives to the far north, what was I doing here? If Laufey was mustering a levy from them, why bring a babe? Surely if someone was with child they would have been exempted?”

Rán lifts his hands in an expansive gesture of helplessness. “That I cannot know,” he says. “But there were a few who still remained in these lands at that time, mostly those who had married one of the _bergrisar_ , that is, one of us mountainous folk – for you see the _iviðjur_ often have the power of changing shapes, and thus can grow to our size for a time if they wish it. But you must understand the recent history between our tribes to understand why they were leaving, and why none now remain. It began when Laufey took the sorcerer-prince Fárbauti for his bed-mate. There were rumours that Laufey treated him ill, and certainly Fárbauti was rarely permitted to see his people. Slowly, in protest and in fear, the _iviðjur_ began to leave, refusing to serve Laufey. 

“In the very final days of the war, Fárbauti suddenly and mysteriously died. Angrboða, who by virtue of his strength in sorcery was the next in line for the throne at Jarnviðr, in outrage declared himself King, no longer subject to Laufey, and the last of the _iviðjur_ left the city. With the Casket lost and his army battered and broken, Laufey could do nothing.”

Loki takes this all in, his eyes wide. “Then... surely you could get in trouble for having me here! If as you said, my people have defied Laufey...”

“Though my children may work at court, may serve in Laufey’s guard, do not believe that is out of any love for him,” Rán says seriously. “Rather it is due to the strengths of the oaths this family has taken, and because – though it pains me to admit it, especially considering your own circumstances and upbringing – many of my children desire revenge for Ægir’s death at Aesir hands. If Dröfn and the others were not in the Day Watch rather than the Night, I cannot help but think they would surely have lost their lives rushing in when the arrogant young Aesir prince and his war band came here.”

Loki’s fingers twist and tighten in the fur that covers his seat. Guilt, sudden, unfamiliar and heavy as Mjolnir itself settles in his stomach. A trip he himself provoked. Where he himself killed many Jotnar, not thinking of them as anything more than monsters. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words tearing out of him. “I’m sorry my... that the people who raised me... that the Aesir did this to you.”

“You have no reason to apologise,” Rán tells him, reaching out to pat his knee comfortingly. “You are not responsible for their actions, either in the war or now. I have come to terms with my lover’s death long ago, and I can forgive that which happens in battle, and that which Odin has apparently appropriately punished.”

Loki feels that if he still wore the lie of Aesir flesh, he might be crying. But no tears can fall from Jotun eyes. He wants to blurt out everything, to tell Rán the horrible, terrible truth, but he cannot, his fear and shame are too great. 

_How many did Thor kill because of you? You were a fool to think you could master your nature, be the kind of Jotun Rán is_ , he tells himself. _You’re no better than Laufey, killing your own kind._

He really is a monster.

\----

Loki has learned much since coming to Jotunheim, which was after all his aim. They are truths bitter and hard to bear, and they sit heavy within him, but they are real. And he wonders, what _would_ have happened if he had gone to Odin with this? Would he have kept up the lie he has been spinning for centuries? Would he have finally given Loki the truth? Would there have been excuses, reasons, some way of making his kidnap make sense. Loki still does not truly know why the Allfather took him. An experiment? A weapon; child of sorcerers’ kind? Something else? And why take _him_ in particular? Are his birth parents even still alive, or were they slain? Did they try to protect him, before he was taken, or was it too late? 

So much lost to the past. Only Odin could reveal the answers, but Loki is not yet ready to return to Asgard and face him. Not with things as they are, so precarious. Not with the pain of discovered knowledge so fresh. Not with the dusky hue of his true skin writ large upon him, for he is not entirely sure how he may return it to Aesir pink. 

No, Asgard and those questions, those puzzles, are for some future time. Loki does not doubt he must return eventually, for his disappearance will be noted in time, if only because even a second son has duties at court, but there is much he would still learn here. What does Asgard truly know of Jotunheim, for all that they were at war? 

Loki has made a study of books, tomes, scrolls, tablets, all the varied knowledge of Asgard’s great libraries, but thought there is much of history and magic and the mysteries of the universe, there was little enough concerning Asgard’s ancient foes. All this that Rán has been explaining is entirely new to him. That Jotnar had only one gender, that all could bear or sire young, that they were not all of the same type but had different tribes, even that there existed within their race a talent for sorcery... How is it that Asgard knows nothing of this?

 _Or perhaps,_ the sneaking thought occurs to him, _Asgard does not know because Odin Allfather does not wish it to know._ What frightening sense that makes. To keep these secrets from anyone who might realise that Loki was not what he seemed, to help hide his little Jotnar changeling. Let none have clues to the monster in their midst. 

Odin is as much a liar as Loki has ever been, in fact or in boast or in hate-born rumour. Loki will get no truth from him that he does not trick into the open, does not pry out through intellect and will. _That_ is why Loki cannot return to Asgard, not yet. 

He is Jotun. He is _iviðjur_. His nature has been revealed – he is trickster, sorcerer, vicious, bitter, _monstrous_. Those are his instincts and not knowing, unawares, he has allowed them to master him all his life. No wonder Asgard hated him. Jotnar behaviour is not so easily concealed. But now he knows. Now he can be prepared to fight it. Rán has managed, so it is not impossible, and no doubt he has taught his children likewise. Loki must learn to do the same. 

So that is what it must mean for him to be Jotnar. But what of the specifics? What of the tribe he comes from, what of being _iviðjur?_ What does that mean? A people native to regions north of here, which is to say closer to the planet’s equator, for Laufey’s stronghold is on the southern continent. What other poison secrets is his body hiding, waiting to spring on him unawares? He has to know so that he can be prepared for them. He will _fix_ himself, and then perhaps things will be better for him in Asgard. 

“What else can you tell me about my kind?” he asks Rán, breaking long silence. A comfortable silence though. His host had not seemed to mind waiting for him to work through his troubled thoughts, sitting patient and still as stone. Perhaps patience might be one of the few positive traits the Jotnar possess, though brash young warriors like Thor would probably not see it that way. Loki has always been capable of patience. That is something. 

“Less than I would like,” Rán admits. “The _iviðjur_ have always been prone to secrecy, which is perhaps natural from a people talented in mage-craft. And even before Fárbauti, there were never all that many of them in these lands. In my younger years I admit I never had much occasion to make myself familiar with your kin.”

“But there must be some sort of lore, something written down?” 

Rán shakes his head. “Paper and stone are hard to come by on Jotunheim. Words written in ice are as easily erased as they are created. Before the war, when Jotunheim was great, we inscribed our knowledge within crystals, which might hold much before they were full. These still exist, but the ability to read them depended on structures like this,” he indicates the strange formation that had caught Loki’s interest earlier, “but as I said before, without the Casket’s power they are dead. No more than pretty sculptures.” 

Loki feels a wave of bitter disappointment. “Then... there is no way I can find out more?”

“It is natural to want to know who you are,” Rán says. “And you have discovered much already. There is a way, but it is not without its dangers, and it will take time. Do not be afraid to put it off until later if you wish. All this is a lot to take in.”

“I would still know what it is,” Loki says. Danger he does not mind – he has faced it many times before, questing with Thor and his friends. As to time, it will depend. If he knew how to change back, he might revisit Asgard briefly so his presence might stave off questions for a while, but he does not. And he is not willing to return in Jotun form and let the secrets become apparent until he can be sure of himself. He would hardly blame the court an... unpleasant... reaction, but he would like to at least be able to reassure them that now he knows why he is the way he is, he will be working to become less inadequate. Provided they do not kill him on sight.

 _But Odin knew,_ the little voice in the back of his head says. _Odin knew what you are, and surely he would have tried to raise you to counter your monstrous nature. And yet you are still_ wrong. _Still_ evil. 

He does his best not to listen to that voice. 

“If you were willing to undertake the journey,” Rán says, “you could go north and see them for yourself. I am sure the _iviðjur_ would be happy to see a lost child return to them, even for the shortest of times.”

“I think... I think I have to,” Loki says. “I have to _know_. You understand?” 

“Of course,” Rán replies. “If this is what you want, I will do everything in my power to help you on your way.”

“Thank you,” Loki says. “You have been very kind to me, and I don’t deserve it.”

“Everyone deserves help,” Rán tells him seriously. 

_No_ , Loki thinks. _Not everyone. But I shall try to be worthy of it, in the end._

\----

Now that the decision has been made, Loki begins to appreciate the scale of the task he has set before himself. Jotunheim is a large realm, and the distance he will have to travel is not slight. Nor will he be able to rely on travel via the secret ways, for such requires at least some familiarity with the destination, familiarity Loki does not have. Lacking horses or other types of steed, for to his knowledge the Jotnar have none, the only way will be on foot. 

“You will not have to go by yourself, of course,” Rán says to him, perhaps seeing his worries on his face. “There are too many dangers along the way for one who does not know Jotunheim.”

“Do you mean to say you intend to come with me?” Loki asks, hardly daring to hope. Rán has done so much for him already, if seems unfair to ask yet more of him, but he cannot help but admit that it would be nice to have a friendly, familiar face by his side. 

“Unfortunately I do not think I can,” the Jotun replies, sounding genuinely regretful. “Much as I would like to, I would be missed at court if I were gone so long. I have my duties, and Laufey is not much given to accepting excuses.” Loki’s face falls. He should have known, shouldn’t have allowed himself to assume too much. He saw himself when he first came to Jotunheim that Rán had his work, overseeing the repairs to the damage Loki himself is in part responsible for through Thor’s hands. 

“Then..?”

“One or two of my children would be able to go with you,” Rán says, “Though I know you do not know them, I can assure you that they are good at heart, though it is true some have more wisdom than others. If you would permit it, I will ask Hrönn and Bylgja. They certainly would not begrudge the journey, and of all of them have least responsibilities here in the city. Bylgja in particular has always wanted to travel.”

Loki hesitates, thinking the matter over. It is true that he will need guides of one kind or another if he wants to have any chance of reaching _iviðjur_ lands. And of all the possibilities, surely it is better that it be someone at least associated with Rán. After all, was he not just thinking to himself that the Jotun would have raised his own family to be masters of their own natures, of whatever instinctual evils they might otherwise be prey to? If it were just any Jotun he would not be able to trust them, but Rán has shown himself to be a good person. He can trust Rán’s judgement in this, surely. 

“I suppose it would be wise,” he says slowly. It’s a hesitant agreement, but he thinks it is the right choice. 

“I do believe it would be dangerous to go alone,” Rán says. “They should be able to take you through Laufey’s lands and then most of the way through Þrymheimr, at least to the border of Angrboða’s kingdom. After that...”

“You think the border will be guarded,” Loki realises. “And given what you’ve told me of Jotunheim’s politics...”

“I am sure whatever guards they have would let you through,” Rán replies, “but the same might not hold true of my children.”

Loki nods. That makes sense. If Laufey is anything to go by... and it isn’t as though there is any way of telling the occasional good Jotun from the rest. Any wandering stranger might be a murderer, a kin-slayer. He wonders how difficult it must be to do the right thing when all around you cleave to monstrous behaviour, when even your king, who ought to show the people an example of noble action, is no paragon but instead the very opposite. Has it not been hard enough for _Loki_ to do the right thing when surrounded by _good_ people? Or is he just that much weaker?

Rán spreads his hand out on the floor. Around where he touches, the ice ripples upwards, into shapes, spikes, ridges. Loki studies it for a moment and then realises that it is terrain. This is a map, as the Jotnar create them. He leans forward from his seat to take a closer look, impressed despite himself. 

“Here is the city,” Rán says, pointing to a cluster of rough building-shapes by a deep ravine. His finger inscribes a pathway away from the crevasse, arcing round tall sharp hills. “There is a road here – the King’s-road – though it has fallen into disrepair since the war. Travellers and traders still use it though, and their traffic is enough to keep Jotunheim’s native predators well away. The King’s-road passes through many small towns on its way north, so you will be able to find provisions enough.”

“Ah... I have no money,” Loki admits, embarrassed. He hadn’t even thought of it until now. Not that he had ever needed gold in Asgard. He was a Prince; his face was well known everywhere he went. _But they would not know you now,_ a part of him thinks. _Instead of a begrudged sort of respect and ever-present mistrust you would instead get a mob howling for your blood._

“I will provide you with enough to see you through the journey,” Rán promises. Loki feels his face burn with shame. 

“I am already in your debt enough...” he begins to say, but Rán interrupts him. 

“I am not poor my friend,” he says, smiling. “Though perhaps one more used to the obvious signs of Aesir rank might not think so. It will not hurt me to help you further. I understand the culture that raised you puts great stock in debts, but things are a little looser in Jotunheim. It is my belief that helping others has its own rewards, though if you ever find yourself in a position to pay me back, I will not object.”

Loki fidgets uncomfortably. What can he say? Even after all this, he does not want to admit just who it was that took him. In Asgard, they still think him Odinsson. He could pay back any debt a hundredfold. But here he is nothing. He _has_ nothing. He could be the child of nobles or of peasants, he does not know which. 

But that is what this journey is going to be all about. Finding answers. He has the marks on his skin at least, and he knows at least some of them must tell of who his parents were, though he has no doubt that only the _iviðjur_ would be able to read them. If Rán knew what they meant he would have mentioned it already. So he will accept this charity, and he will just have to hope that he is able to pay it off, one way or another. 

“Eventually the King’s-road will lead you to Þrymheimr,” Rán continues, turning his attention back to the map. “These lands are held under Lord Þrym, who although he has sworn an oath to Laufey, is known to keep his own counsel. I do not think you have anything to fear from him or his folk.” The expanse he points out is mountainous, rugged terrain, with what appear to be many small villages marked out in its valleys. On the bank of what by its smoothness appears to be a great frozen lake is another city. 

“I assume that is where this Þrym keeps his court,” Loki says, gesturing to it. 

Rán nods. “From there, there are no great roads north. Only smaller paths and tracks. The going will be tougher, and the land wilder. Soon you will start to come upon warmer climes, see trees and tundra. My advice would be to get more information in the city as you pass, for I do not know precisely where the border lies, nor the way to any of the towns in Angrdoða’s kingdom.”

Loki nods, looking carefully over the map and doing his best to commit it to memory. Unlike paper, this cannot be taken with him. “Do you know how long it should take us?” he asks. 

“Perhaps a month, all told.” Rán sighs. “Before the war you might have made it there in days, but no-one has enough magic to keep an ice-construct functional for that long by themselves. Still, it can’t be helped.”

A month. Loki feels a stab of uncertainty. Even he is likely to be missed at court if he’s gone that long. And with Odin so near the Odinsleep... but surely Thor will have managed to prove himself worthy to return by that point. Or if not, Frigga is always there to step into the post, as she has done in the past when he and Thor were both children. Though he does not like to shirk his responsibilities, he _must_ find out the truth about himself, about his own kind. He has a worthiness of his own to prove. 

“Better to leave as soon as possible then,” he says, rising. “Perhaps I ought to meet Hrönn and... um... Bylgja. If I’m going to be travelling with them for so long...”

Rán nods, getting to his feet as well. “They should be finished their morning meal by now. Come, I will take you to them.”

Loki steels himself. If he is to survive a whole month of Jotunheim, he must at least be able to _look_ at Jotnar strangers without flinching. Showing weakness is never a good plan. He must keep his mind focused on his goal and then... And then everything will depend on what he finds at journey’s end. 

\----

Loki waits much as he did the last time at the doorway of the dining room as Rán calls his two chosen children over. There does seem to be less food on the table now, and there is a finished sort of atmosphere to the room, as found when a group is ready to go its separate ways yet is reluctant to do so. However Rán’s reappearance seems to act as some kind of signal even before he speaks, and one of the Jotun begins to clear the table while the others leave the room by other doors, casting curious glances back their way. The two summoned, Hrönn and Bylgja, make their way over. 

“Hello again,” says the one Loki was tentatively recalling as Hrönn, proving his guess correct. “Did you sleep well?”

“Um... yes, I did,” Loki replies, taken by surprise at the courtesy. “Thank you.”

“Do either of you have any plans for the coming few months?” Rán asks them, getting right down to business. 

Hrönn looks thoughtful, but after what appears to be a quick bit of mental calculation, says, “No, nothing in particular, or at least nothing that couldn’t wait. There’s really not much for me to do around here.” His brother merely shakes his head in a negative. 

“You see,” Rán explains, “our guest wishes to travel north to Angrboða’s kingdom, and has no-one to accompany him.”

“You want us to go with him?” Hrönn says, his eyes going wide in excitement. “Oh yes, that sounds _much_ more exciting than hanging around here. Of course I’ll go.”

“I agree,” Bylgja says. “I have been wanting to make this trip for many years. I would be a fool not to take the opportunity.”

Rán smiles, and claps them both on the shoulders. “Ah, you are good boys, the both of you.” Though Bylgja bears the parental affection stoically, Hrönn wriggles in embarrassment. It is fairly clear to Loki that he is the younger of the two. “How long do you think it will take you to pack?”

“Food, bed rolls, coin,” Bylgja mutters under his breath, then louder; “perhaps an hour. But we will have to tell people that we’ll be leaving. Given that, we should be able to make a start of it by late afternoon.”

Rán looks down at Loki. “That... that seems perfectly fine to me,” he stammers, unsure of himself. Asgard’s court was a small enough place, and he became familiar with all of its inhabitants centuries ago. It has been a long time indeed since he last had to meet someone new, unless it were on a quest, and then he had Thor and his company to do most of the work for him. His social skills outside of the elegant forms of diplomacy and noble manners are rusty indeed. 

“Then it is settled,” Rán says. “Anyway, I shall let the two of you get on with your own preparations. I will find provisions for our guest myself.” 

Hrönn and Bylgja nod and depart. Loki watches them leave with a certain amount of trepidation. They seem... amiable enough. There is something about Bylgja that reminds him a little of Hogun, or Heimdall, naturally taciturn and speaking only as necessary, and while he cannot say he is exactly fast friends with either of those two, nor does he mind their company. Hrönn on the other hand... he doesn’t know. He certainly didn’t come here with the intention of making friends, but is he really going to turn down the opportunity? 

There is the potential for a great deal of awkwardness on this trip. But it is necessary, otherwise Loki would not be going. He will simply have to make the best of it. And who knows? Perhaps some good will come of it as well. 

\----

Loki is provided with a satchel made from thin, robust leather. They make another trip to the pantry, and after some deliberation Rán hands him wrapped packages of dried meat and fish, sealed ice containers holding more of the morning’s strange porridge, a variety of unfamiliar vegetables (at least he thinks that’s what they are), some small loaves of something bread-like, and finally two small canteens of a clear liquid that smells of liquor and herbs. 

“For strength and stamina,” Rán says in reply to his raised eyebrow, winking. Loki stows them away in the pack somewhat sceptically. Of course, that’s not to say that Asgard doesn’t have something similar, but those drafts have a tendency to smell rather more foul than these. From his experience, this looks too much like a feasting-table drink to have any positive values – aside from taste. 

All in all, packing does indeed take about an hour, which leaves Loki with quite some time to wait before they are due to set off. His pack is full to the brim, with a stout, thick, comfortable-looking fur folded up on top of it, and he’s a little at a loss for what to do with himself. Were he back in Asgard, he would be spending time in the palace library, reading and re-reading books of magic, or in his rooms working on his latest spell or making sure old ones hadn’t gotten rusty. Other times he would be at court, at Odin or Frigga’s side, or accompanying Thor and his friends on their latest adventure. Here... he has no idea what the Jotnar might do for fun. 

He’s about to ask Rán his opinion when his host turns to him with an apologetic smile. “I am afraid I have duties of my own to attend to now,” he says. “Much as you saw me doing yesterday. I hope you do not mind being left here – you may of course explore the house at your leisure.” 

Loki does not wish to be ungrateful – Rán has given him much of his time already – but he still feels a little dismayed. But of course this is the whole reason his host couldn’t come with him on his quest in the first place. “Will I at least see you before we leave?” he asks, trying not to sound overly needy. 

“I will return to see you off,” Rán says comfortingly. 

“Then I suppose... I will see you then,” Loki says, biting his lip. He will just have to make his own amusement in the meantime. 

\----

In lieu of having anything better to do, Loki returns to the large space of the room with the crystal to practise his sorcery. Illusions are simple as breathing at this point, but all those he is used to casting of himself have his pale false Aesir skin. Clearly if he needs to use them at any point during the trip, that is going to have to change. But being forced to look at his Jotun form closely enough to mimic it is not an idea that sits comfortably. 

He stands in the centre of the room, breathing deeply to calm himself. He needs to do this. He has never exactly been handsome by the standards of Asgard – too slight, too dark of hair, never really able to grow a beard – but now he cannot imagine _anyone_ finding him desirable. He is ugly, inside and out. 

He closes his eyes tightly before he calls up a mirror. He can feel it hovering in the air in front of him, waiting, menacing. He’s only caught glimpses up until now; the skin of his hands, his arms. Never his face. But he has to, has to see it, has to _know_ just how horrific this new skin is. He gathers his resolve and looks. 

A stranger is staring back at him. Paler blue than most of the Jotnar he’s seen, but the same murderous eyes of red tinged with a hint of orange. He remembers tales passed round their group as children, claiming the colour was because the Jotnar drank the blood of their enemies, that the darker the colour, the more ferocious the monster. His have barely any orange at all. Pale raised lines like scars inscribe an arc across his forehead, cut down from his eyes along his cheeks. Only his hair is the same, though tangled from sleep and wind. 

He may not have the height of the _bergrisar_ , as Rán called them, but he is no less a creature out of nightmares. 

He dismisses the mirror with a sweep of his hand. He can’t. He _can’t_. He can’t bear to study that face. If he needs an illusion, he will just have to rely on that brief glimpse and luck. It will have to do, because the alternative is beyond him. 

He turns to more familiar, more comforting spells to fill the next few hours, and tries to forget the shame and disgust that burns in his stomach at the memory of his own reflection. 

\----

The whole family is waiting to see them off. Loki joins Hrönn and Bylgja, each burdened with their own proportionally sized pack, and tries not to look too intimidated by the other Jotnar. There are many hugs, and back-slappings, and long farewells, and Loki stands a little to one side and tries not to get underfoot. This is all somewhat unfamiliar to him – Odin and Frigga have never been demonstrative, though at least that is one area where he and Thor were treated equally, and though Thor himself had been known to tug him into an embrace at any moment when they were young, he had seemed to grow out of it in later years. 

“Do you have everything you need?” Rán asks him, disentangling himself from the group. 

Loki nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. It’s foolish really, how quickly he has become attached to someone who was a stranger only a few days ago. Someone who, before this trip, Loki would have been afraid of. But there is something about Rán, his kindness to him, that has latched itself into his heart. Silly of him, he knows, but outwith his control. 

“Here, take this.” Rán holds out a palm-sized piece of beaten metal – or at least it is palm sized in Loki’s hand when he takes it, more like a large coin between the Jotun’s fingers. “It bears the sigil of my house – it may come in handy.” 

“Thank you,” Loki says, touched. He has the experience to know the value of such a gift. “I shall keep it safe, and use it only as necessary.”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Rán tells him. “And whether you do or not, you are always welcome here, whenever you may choose to visit.” He bends to one knee and once more Loki finds himself enveloped in an unexpected but surprisingly welcome embrace. He returns it as best he’s able. 

“I will come back and see you once all this is over,” he promises. “Thank you again for the kindness you have shown me.” 

“Think nothing of it,” Rán replies. “Now you should be on your way, before the day grows too short.”

Following Hrönn and Bylgja, Loki leaves the courtyard, heading out into the streets of Laufey’s city, turning and waving his farewell as he does so. This is the first step of his journey. The quest has begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for angst, self-hate, sexism and fucked-up Asgardian values

The three of them head north immediately, heading straight along the wide and broken streets of the city. Loki makes sure his pack is settled comfortably on his shoulders and sets his gaze on what little he can see of the far horizon. There are tall buildings blocking part of the view, some near as tall as Asgard’s towers, but most shattered in some way, their windows showing nothing but darkness, their walls gaping wide. Far off are mountains, their snowy slopes shining in the sun. There is a deep cleft or gap between them, a valley pointing north and slightly east. That is where they are heading. 

“So,” Hrönn says, walking beside him and matching his much larger steps to Loki’s own. “I suppose we ought to get to know one another, if we’re going to be spending some time in each other’s company.” 

Loki looks up at him, faintly suspicious. But there’s nothing about the Jotun’s face that says he’s poking fun, merely an open and honest curiosity. “I suppose so,” he replies cautiously. 

“Our Father said it might be rude to ask your name; I guess maybe that’s a custom in your tribe. But I was just wondering what we ought to call you.”

It’s an obvious problem, and one that Loki should have thought about before. And now that it’s been brought up, it occurs to him that it isn’t the only issue this trip is likely to raise. It wouldn’t take much conversation to establish that Loki knows very little of Jotunheim; far too little for him to have grown up here, to merely be one of the _iviðjur_ returning home. But should he tell them the truth? Tell them that he was taken away as a babe by the enemies of their race? 

It is something he will have to think about. At least he doesn’t have to make any kind of decision quite yet. And in the meantime... “You can call me Lopt,” he replies. It is a name one of his tutors had used half in jest and half in irritation, after being fooled once again by one of his illusions. It means ‘like air’, or ‘capricious’. It is far from the worst name he has ever been called, and indeed, he quite likes it. 

“Lopt,” Hrönn says, nodding. “That’s a nice name. Obviously you already know my brother and me. I’m the youngest of us, and he’s third eldest, after Uðn and Blóðughadda. He only stays at home because at first he was looking after us little ones, and I guess now he hasn’t found anyone he wants to set up house with.”

It’s no surprise to hear that Hrönn isn’t very old, but Loki is pleased to have his assumptions confirmed. Although from what Rán has told him, Hrönn must have at least been born around the same time as Loki was, near the end of the war. And yet he seems much less mature. Do _iviðjur_ grow faster? Or is it some kind of side-effect of whatever spell Odin must have placed on him to make him look Aesir? Aging to match the people who surrounded him. 

“When _were_ you born,” he ventures, “if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, it was actually a bit of a surprise to our dam.” There’s a slight purple tinge to his cheeks that Loki suddenly realises must be blushing. Well, at least he knows now what it looks like, for future reference. “I was, uh... conceived just before our sire was killed.” He ducks his head, though from Loki’s much shorter perspective it doesn’t hide much. 

“I never knew him,” Hrönn continues softly. “I’ve only heard about him from stories. I know he died doing what was right, protecting us from the Aesir invaders, but I still wish... well. That I’d had a chance to meet him. Everyone says he was a good person. Brave and strong and generous... But wishes aren’t worth anything!” He kicks out suddenly at a nearby piece of ice, sending it skipping across the street. A few paces ahead, Bylgja looks back at them with a disapproving expression. 

“I’m sorry,” Loki says, conflicted. Every lesson he’s ever had, all of Odin’s tales, told of the Jotnar invading Midgard, intent on conquering it. It had always seemed obvious that his fath- that Odin had been doing the right thing by leading Asgard’s armies to repel them and drive them back to Jotunheim. And he has always been told that it wouldn’t have been enough to stop there. That once they’d had a taste of power the Jotnar would grow ever thirstier for it, would try and conquer the other realms again and again. That they were a threat too big to be allowed to remain as they were. The Jotnar had to be crushed so that they would never rise again. 

But Odin has been lying to him for years. About his birth, about his blood. And whatever the evils of Jotnar nature, had _everything_ really been necessary? Perhaps it has. Loki has no way of knowing. But of all the many and varied stories Asgard has about the Jotnar, not one of them mentions children, or civilians. Are Jotnar born monsters, that even the young will rise up and attack the innocent and unwary? Are they so naturally suited for violence that the concept of a civilian holds no meaning? 

Hrönn’s behaviour might indicate not, but he is of Rán’s family, and they are not indicative of Jotnar as a whole. How could they be? If all Jotnar were like them, so normal, so _decent_ , there might never have been a war, or if there had, surely the stories about it would be different. Surely the Aesir would sing instead of worthy and honourable opponents, not fierce monsters. 

“It’s alright,” Hrönn says, breaking the awkward silence. “It isn’t fair, but nothing’s been fair since the war. That’s just what we have to live with, I guess. I mean, I’m sure it’s the same for your tribe, although Angrboða is probably a better lord than Laufey.”

“I couldn’t say,” Loki says, deflecting. “I don’t know enough of Laufey’s rule to make a comparison.”

“So you didn’t live down here before Fárbauti died?” Hrönn asks. “I thought maybe you were visiting distant family or something. Or... maybe you were too young then to remember. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at guessing age when you’re so small.” He pauses. “Oh wait, was that offensive? Um, I apologise. I never know what to say, my tongue is as rough as a glacier sometimes.”

“It’s alright. I was born during the war,” Loki replies, a little amused despite himself. With his own unfamiliarity, it can be hard enough for him to distinguish the _bergrisar_ despite their greater size, so he can hardly take offense at the reverse. 

“That makes sense,” Hrönn says, smiling. “So you’re not that much older than me at all! That’s nice – there aren’t very many people my age in the city. It’s a bit depressing here at times, which is really Laufey’s fault. Nearly everyone here is in the King’s Guard or the Army. Laufey is obsessed with gathering enough strength to take on the Aesir again and get the Casket back. There’s no place for people like me or Bylgja, who don’t want to be soldiers.” 

He sighs. “Of course I _want_ the Casket back, just like everyone else. But we’ll never be strong enough to take on _them_. They scare me; the thought of what they did to us, and what they could do to us again if they wanted. I mean, just look at what that Aesir prince did a few days ago! He killed hundreds of people! They say he was banished, but we only have their word for it! And Laufey wants us to fight that?! It’s impossible.” 

Again Loki feels a stab of guilt. For all he proclaimed that Thor was not fit to be a king, it was clear that Loki himself was hardly fit to be his advisor either. In all his planning, to not have considered the inevitable consequences of baiting Thor to go to Jotunheim... But the Jotnar had been naught but faceless monsters then. They had not been kin. And even if many of them were slaves to their own base natures, he now knows that not all Jotnar are irredeemable. Not all Jotnar are beasts to be put down, as Asgard thinks of them. Some deserve life, like Rán’s family, but he had been blind to that. Maybe his own malevolent nature had blinded him to it. 

“But surely Laufey has no way to take the fight to them,” he says, trying to be reassuring. He holds his voice steady through sheer force of will. “No matter how great his army grows, he cannot do anything with it.”

“I’ve heard rumours,” Hrönn says. “That there’s a traitor in Asgard who might be willing to help us. A mage or sorcerer of some kind who can open Yggdrasil’s ways without the use of the Bifrost. If that’s true... It’s my own brothers’ lives I’m afraid for. They would seek revenge on the Golden Ones, and I’m not sure they would ever come back.” 

Loki feels worse than ever. But at least he can make a promise to himself that if, no, _when_ he returns to Asgard, he will put aside all thoughts of such things. Never again will he pass such information to Laufey or Laufey’s servants. He will not endanger more lives. Let Jotunheim remain as it is, separate. Who knows, perhaps in time all Jotnar can learn to better themselves, as Loki intends to. Maybe then they will be fit to rejoin the other realms. 

“Anyway,” Hrönn says, “I didn’t mean to get so serious. Our problems here are our problems, and I’m sure you have enough of your own. If we want this trip to go swiftly, we should talk of lighter things.”

“I am... honoured that you would confide in me,” Loki says quietly. “And I wish things were better for you.”

“For all Jotunheim,” Hrönn agrees. “But let’s forget all that for now. We’ve a long way to go before we make camp for the night. I’ve been told I have a good singing voice, and my tongue gets less clumsy when I’m not trying to think up my own words. Perhaps you’d like to hear one of our older tales, from before the war, if you haven’t much experience of them in your tribe?”

“That seems a fine idea.”

Hrönn considers for a moment. “Hmmm. There’s one I know about old King Mimir, also called the wise, who was Laufey’s grandsire. It’s all about his quest to the foot of Yggdrasil to forge the Gjallarhorn.” 

Loki nods. “That sounds appropriate.” It will be interesting to see how the Jotnar tell their own stories and legends. 

Hrönn smiles and clears his throat. Loki looks back towards the mountains and the horizon as the Jotun begins to sing, his voice pleasingly mellow. 

_“Many moons of mighty Mimir’s rule  
passed by in peace and plenty,  
Yet wise Mimir worried, wondered;   
he knew his kennings could be keener,  
He put aside his pomp, his power,   
and went down to the worlds’ waters,  
Yggdrasil, immense, beyond imagining,   
whence comes wisdom at the world’s roots.  
Tough would be his tiring travels,   
filled with trials before he came to truth,  
Many monsters did Mimir master,   
and of such feats shall this skald sing.”_

Loki lets the words wash over him, the structure familiar enough even though the story is not. Though he has much to think about, for now at least he is content to relax. One thing he has plenty of is time. 

\----

Hrönn recites his tale: how Mimir found ways to travel without the Bifrost, now lost; how he riddled with Ratatosk; how he wrestled the Sky-Bear; how he slew bands of roving Ljósálfar slavers; how he traversed the dark paths for many days with neither food nor drink. How he tricked Niðoggr, the guardian at Yggdrasil’s roots. How he spun himself a forge from the stuff of the universe – for Mimir was one of the very few _bergrisar_ with a gift for magic. The long and painful process of creating the Gjallerhorn, and then at last, to drink deep of true knowledge, the water that pools, nourishes the World Tree and mixes with its sap. 

It is a tale that Loki enjoys both in the content and in the telling, for despite whatever leadenness of tongue Hrónn might have claimed, in this at least he has skill, reciting the saga without hesitation. How much of it is truth and how much the expected exaggeration of legends grown in the telling he knows not, but either way it seems Mimir was a fairly worthy specimen for a Jotun, though too underhand and cunning in method to be truly honourable. 

Perhaps, as with Loki, that was where his strengths lay. Though Loki had tried at first to meet Asgard’s expectations of their royalty, all his efforts were insufficient to make him even half Thor’s equal. But perhaps if he had been the heir, knowing he was to be King, he might somehow have been able to do better. For all know that diplomacy – pretty words that are the resort of those not strong enough to enforce their will – ought to be the Queen’s domain, woman’s work much as is sorcery. Mimir must surely have been aware of this. 

Yet as he has but recently learned, Jotunheim _has_ no division between male and female. They are both, and neither. So perhaps for Jotnar, there is no difference between what is suitable for men and what is suitable for women? 

If that is so, then perhaps Loki is not wrong, or cowardly, or unmanly, to pursue the arts of magic. 

Of course, even if that is so, there are many other ways in which Loki does not meet Asgard’s standards, so it is not as if he should allow this sudden realisation to lull him into a false sense of confidence. Nor will it be easy to explain the matter to Asgard’s people when he returns there. He has barely thought on the implications of that particular piece of information himself – he has been too concerned with the more immediate horrors of discovery. 

He does not feel any more womanly now than he ever has before. But then, compared to Thor, or Hogun, or Volstagg or even Fandral, or to so many other of Asgard’s finest warriors, he never has been able to match up their male ideal. And there is the shapeshifting... 

He doesn’t know what to think. The Jotnar appear so outwardly male that he has not _had_ to think on it over much. It seems this is another thing he will have to work out before this journey is over. 

\----

They travel on in this fashion for a few hours more, making their way ever northwards through the rubble-strewn streets of the city. Even this far from Laufey’s palace, his stronghold, still the evidence of the war remains despite the many long centuries that have passed. Some effort has clearly been made to clear the pathways, with the great blocks of dark ice textured almost like stone either dragged to one side or almost melted away at parts. For all the ice-craft Loki is sure the Jotnar possess however, it seems that they have been unable to repair their dwellings completely. 

Perhaps it is simply that so many were killed during the war that there are no longer occupants to fill the buildings. Or perhaps this too is due to the absence of the Casket of Winters. It seems the artefact was so central to the Jotnar way of life its loss has broken them. But then, wasn’t that what Odin intended in taking it? 

Loki wishes he had taken more of an interest in the Casket. Of all the magical items in the Allfather’s most prized vault, despite its position of prominence, he had never been much interested in studying its properties. That was clearly an oversight. And yet if he had started to inquire about it, what might Odin have done? For surely, knowing his true heritage, his false-father would have worried taking that path might uncover the lies he had spun, uncover the truth of Loki. 

It is meaningless to wonder about that now. Just as it is meaningless to wonder too much about the state of Laufey’s city. He cannot ask the brothers any questions that might reveal his lack of knowledge, not before he has made a decision on whether or not he will reveal his story to them. He is not sure how they would react. More sympathy, verging on pity? Anger at those who took him? Would they shy away from one who was raised as one of their enemies? How to explain that he knows they are not like most of their kin, that even having been shown the truths of Jotnar nature – as they surely would not have – Loki would not wish them ill. Not ones who have done what he as yet cannot. 

Such thoughts begin to occupy his mind as Hrönn finishes his saga, and they begin to reach the edges of the city. Ahead of them stretches the long road north, a wide and flat-packed expanse broad enough for ten of the _bergrisar_ to walk abreast, cutting through rough land of rock and ice brushed with snow. The view stretches uninterrupted until it reaches foothills, lifting upwards to the mountains themselves. There is only emptiness, no trees, no buildings, nothing to be seen but barren wasteland. 

Naught to be heard but the wind, rushing swift out of the shelter of the buildings. Were Loki still wearing his Aesir shape, he has no doubt that he would find the wind biting indeed, sharp as his own knifes. As it is, it is nothing more than a pleasant breeze, enough to tousle his already tangled hair and brush invigoratingly across his exposed skin. 

By his side, Hrönn sighs happily. “I do enjoy the view from here,” he says. “Though I don’t come out here much. Mostly I have lessons, and chores to do at home. Or spending time with friends. I do have a few!”

Loki looks up at him. Personally he finds the landscape desolate and lonely. Stark. Perhaps something to admire from a distance, and for short periods, but he does not like to think of having nothing else to look upon. He will stay on Jotunheim for as long as it takes to do what must be done, but even now he aches for Asgard. It may not be where he belongs, not until he proves himself worthy of it, but it is all he has ever known, and he misses it desperately. 

Even though it has never really felt like home, even though its people have never loved him, still its loss proves its value. Besides, if he was despised there, has he not discovered it was with good reason? He has been prey to a monster’s instincts, so no wonder he did not belong. One such as him needs to work to be worthy of the sun and shining cities that are Asgard.

“Tell me a little of your lessons,” he says to Hrönn, putting aside his train of thought. Better not to deal with the subject of Jotunheim’s scenery. Besides, his curiosity has been roused. 

“Oh yes, we should compare how each of our tribes do it,” Hrönn suggests with a wide and eager smile. Loki’s heart sinks. Foolish of him, not to have realised the obvious reply. Yet in this subject at least neither Hrönn nor Bylgja know anything. It will be safe to bluff. “I’ll go first,” the Jotun continues. “I’m told it was done very differently before the war, but everything is done in the skaldic tradition these days. Rhyme and repetition, to get the lessons across, to help us remember them. To be honest, I quite enjoy it. We all learn Jotunheim’s history, of kings and great deeds, which is best because they already had songs about them. Some of the others they had to make up on the spot, and not all the experts were very good at poetry. Some are terribly clunky, you wouldn’t believe... Or I suppose maybe you would; I suppose some of your tribe’s lessons might have the same problem. 

“There was a little of the basics of _seidr_ -craft when we were younger – we all go to the same tutor, everyone near my age. Some of us had a little talent for the simple little bits of magic, but mostly they just taught us some of the concepts behind it.” He sighs. “Not that it’s much use. There’s nothing to power it. We’d have more luck if the _iviðjur_ hadn’t all left, but I know you had good reasons to. Anyway, aside from that, we’ve also got art, and music, and of course the warrior arts if we’ve got any taste or talent for it. That’s not for me though. Art I can do; ice-sculpting mostly. And I can play the flute a little.”

“I don’t know about art, or playing any kind of instrument,” Loki says, smiling. “But sorcery I can certainly talk about. Many of my lessons were on that subject.”

“Well that doesn’t surprise me,” Hrönn replies with a laugh. “Considering that’s the talent iviðjur are known for after all.”

“Indeed,” Loki replies. “Aside from that, which took up a great deal of my time, I had a warrior’s training also. Mostly with the spear and staff, because I am not terribly suited to long blades, but also with knives and daggers. For throwing, mostly.”

Hrönn nods enthusiastically. “That makes sense if you’re good at magic,” he says. “I’ve never tried, but my brothers say knives are terribly tricky to make without a little bit of a spell – they tend to lose their edge when you get them too far from your body. Sculpture is easier, because ice knows how to make flowing shapes. You can do icicles, of course, but they’re too brittle to be useful.”

Loki stores that piece of information in the back of his mind. It’s interesting, and could prove useful at some point. 

“Will you tell me more about learning magic?” Hrönn asks. “It sounds really interesting, and we’ve still got a long way to go before we have to stop for the night.” Up ahead, Loki notices Bylgjr’s interest seems to have been raised by this particular topic of conversation too. At least, there’s a certain intensity about his posture, something that tells Loki he has started paying attention. But that makes sense; he’s already been told that the Jotun has an interest in the _iviðjur_ , in meditation and logically more mystical pursuits. 

“Certainly,” he replies. It is a subject upon which he can talk in detail and at length, and he doubts the _iviðjur’s_ schools of magic are _that_ much different to those of the Aesir. The underlying rules of the universe remain the same wherever you go, that hidden warp and weft, and the ways that exist to twist and bend and pull at them must be similar at heart. 

And if he talks on this, it will hide how little he knows of other subjects. 

\----

Despite the weight of his pack, this is not the first time Loki has been a-questing, and he does not easily tire. By the time the sun is starting to sink beneath the horizon in the east, they have reached the foothills of the mountains. The road has so far been nearly empty, though they did pass a few solitary travellers coming in the opposite direction. There has been no sign of wildlife, and still naught in the way of flora. No trees, no shrubs, no plants, not even growths of lichen upon the sometimes exposed rocks. 

Their path has just begun to turn upwards, snaking past the rough edges of a snow and scree slope to their left when Bylgja calls a halt. Loki and Hrönn are still discussing some of the finer points behind transmutation, which in practise is mostly Loki explaining and Hrönn either nodding or asking for clarification, when the older Jotun holds up a hand for them to stop, and unslings his pack from his back. 

“We make camp here,” he says, pointing to a sheltered nook between two walls of rock. 

“Good plan,” Hrönn replies. “I’m starting to get hungry.” 

A faint smile is Bylgja’s only answer, but he leads the way off the flat road through old snow to his chosen campsite. Though the snow comes only ankle deep on the two taller Jotun, for Loki that is enough to brush mid-way up his calves. At least he can’t feel its chill. He does fall a little behind his companions however, and when he catches up, he sees them begin to fashion rough beds for themselves by creating shallow dips in the snow and ice. 

Even had he no knowledge of his two companions, their mere actions here would be enough to tell them apart. Bylgja shapes the ice with careful motions of his hands, without wasted movement. His manipulation of the natural Jotnar magic is clearly practised, elegant and skilful. Hrönn on the other hand approaches his craft with showy, expansive gestures. The ice jumps to his command, but much of the power it takes is wasted. 

Loki watches them for a few moments before he realises that he is going to have to do the same. This is clearly a normal part of how the Jotnar make camp, and to be unable or unwilling to do it is sure to give him away. But he has no practise working with ice. There is little use for the element in Asgard. Fire and light have always been his chosen tools. They will be expecting him to be good at this though. Better than good, for he is a mage. 

A sudden stab of irrational panic shocks through him. He doesn’t want them to know. He doesn’t even fully understand why not. Would telling the truth really be such a hardship? Does he really think he can keep up a falsehood for the entirety of their trip? Why does he even want to? Wouldn’t it be easier for all of them if they knew? 

And yet. He does not want to risk their reactions. 

Calming himself, he centres himself around his magic. That at least is comforting and familiar. Perhaps he does not know how to shape ice. But he knows his craft. He has shaped many kinds of material in the past, and what is this but more of the same? If he merely thinks of it like that, he will surely have no problem. 

He reaches out with his will and commands the world to shape itself to his desires. 

Ice shudders and melts away, like water under wind. Ripples shape the edges of the dip he makes, but it is smooth enough inside. It did not feel particularly easier or harder than moulding any other material with his magic. He expected something... more. 

“That’s quite pretty,” Hrónn says, admiring the frozen lip of ice. Loki thanks him, but his attention is on the other member of their party. Bylgja is watching him with an unreadable expression. They lock eyes for a moment, and Loki has the feeling that he is being assessed in some way, but after a few moments the Jotun looks away and returns to the business of making camp. 

Loki has no idea what to make of it. 

\----

Something wakes Loki early the next morning. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is beginning to lighten with the first stirrings of dawn. Stars speckle the sky far above, but they are starting to fade into the deep paling blue. He pushes his furs aside and sits up; looking about for whatever it was that roused him. Hrónn still sleeps, a large shape concealed amongst his own coverings emitting soft snuffling noises at intervals. Bylgja however is nowhere to be seen. 

Loki gets to his feet warily. It seems unlikely that the Jotun’s absence is anything to be concerned about, but it is strange, and strange things often have the potential to prove dangerous. 

He will have to go looking for his companion, he decides. It’s the only way to be sure that nothing untoward has occurred, though it wouldn’t be wise to venture too far away from their campsite. He doesn’t know the area, and Rán warned him of the dangers that could be lurking. Probably nothing he couldn’t handle, but he – unlike certain Aesir he could mention – has never been one to rush into things. 

Leaving Hrónn to his slumber, Loki makes his way through the snow back towards the road, following the trail of large footsteps leading that way. He does not have to go far to find his quarry. 

Sitting with his legs folded beneath him, facing in the direction of the rising sun, Bylgja might easily be a statue, so still is he. His eyes are closed Loki sees as he approaches, and his chest moves in slow, deep breaths. He is meditating. 

Loki wonders whether he should go back. He doesn’t wish to disturb the Jotun’s repose. Meditation has never been a part of his own practise of magic, but he knows it often proves beneficial to others. He had tried it, in the early days of his training, but had not personally found it of use. It’s clear enough that Bylgja gets something out of it though. 

The decision is taken out of his hands when Bylgja speaks. 

“I thought you would come and find me.”

“I was... worried,” Loki admits. 

“I wanted to speak to you alone,” the Jotun says, not moving, or even opening his eyes. “You are not who you say you are.”

Loki stiffens. What has given him away? Or perhaps he is only digging. “I never claimed to be anything,” he replies. 

“Even _iviðjur_ shape simple ice as we do,” Bylgja says. “Not with foreign-feeling magic like yours.” 

Loki takes a careful step backwards. Perhaps it is only right that the truth come to light, yet something about this conversation is making him nervous. 

Before he can do more than shift that small pace ice rises around him, sharp-edged and pointed at his throat, a perfect prison of knives. Loki stills and tries not to panic. Bylgja gets to his feet. 

“Who are you really,” he asks, “one who feels like Asgard?”

\----

Hrónn may have told him that making the edges of knives is hard, but the same clearly does not hold true for the icy spears that now surround him. Loki is very careful not to move in the slightest, but he still has to breathe, and the nervous motion of swallowing round his dry mouth brushes his skin into one of the needle-sharp tips that press against his throat. He feels the quick prick of pain as it pierces him, but there is no blood. 

He should have anticipated that. He killed enough of them in that most recent battle to know that Jotnar do not bleed. 

He has his own guilt to bear for that, but better not to think of it right now.

“I _am_ a Jotun,” he says carefully, keeping his eyes on the suddenly much more menacing bulk of Bylgja. “I am one of the _iviðjur_. But I admit I have not been entirely honest with you, though I told your dam everything. We... did not speak about revealing such things to you.”

“You look the part,” Bylgja says, his voice a low rumble. He stands far enough away that they can lock eyes without either of them straining their necks, but close enough that he could easily move to strike, should Loki’s answers not satisfy him. “But Asgard has sorcerers too. I recognise the touch of Aesir magic.”

So he has enough sensitivity to spell-craft to see that much. Loki is beginning to wish he’d spoken the truth before, for he knows enough to see that it sounds an unlikely story, and it’s hard to convince a suspicious mind of anything. He ought to know, he has experience in this area. But he is not called Silver-tongue for nothing, and his skill at word-craft and manipulation is still his own, no matter his other changed circumstances. 

“You believe me to be some Aesir enchanter is disguise then?” he asks. “A shape-shifter? Have you not already seen Rán touch my bare flesh without causing it to burn? And for what purpose would I be here? What need has Asgard for spies, and what could I say to your own dam that would make him believe in whatever story you would have me spin? Why make such a long journey to Angrboða’s kingdom when the Bifrost could have taken me there directly?”

“Our touch only burns others when we will it to,” Bylgja says, pointedly. “If you were what you claim, you would know that. And I do not say you are Aesir, only Aesir-trained. Other realms may want to take advantage of our weakness.”

A possibility Loki in his panic had not considered. It is clear Bylgja is smart; he has thought of many possibilities. This is not a sudden, reactionary act, but a careful and thought-out interrogation. 

“Then I’ll tell you the truth,” Loki says, unable to come up with any better options as things lay. “All of it, as I told your dam. I know it will sound strange, maybe too strange, but I swear that I won’t lie.” Though he may leave certain things out, such as his true name. He’s not about to put himself even deeper into danger; he has no illusions. After what Thor did, to reveal himself as brother to a –in their minds – murderer would be as good as signing his own death warrant. 

Bylgja nods for him to go ahead. He seems willing to listen, but other than that his expression is unreadable. 

“I was born here on Jotunheim,” Loki begins, “at the very end of the war with Asgard. I do not know the circumstances of how it happened, but I was taken by one of the Aesir soldiers, who by some spell or perhaps as a result of my innate magic trying to protect me – I know not which – disguised me as his own child. I was brought up on Asgard, as one of them. It was only very recently that I discovered my true heritage, and because I did not trust the one who took me to tell the truth, I used my sorcery to come here to Jotunheim. That is all I desire here; to know the truth of who and what I am.”

He does not waste words or breath with fancy embellishments; Bylgja does not strike him as the type to be swayed by them. He hopes his honesty somehow makes it into his voice. It is not often that he opens himself bare like this, but he has little choice. He did not come so far to be killed in the wastes of Jotunheim, with no-one to know his fate or sing the saga of his death. 

There is a long wait while Bylgja regards him with cool, orange-red eyes, making some kind of decision. It is getting harder for Loki to avoid moving, for while he feels no cold, he is trapped in an awkward position, and his muscles are already beginning to burn with the ache of holding there. He does not know how much damage this form can take, compared to his Aesir one. Blood-loss may not be an issue, but a chunk of Jotun-crafted ice piercing through him will be worrying enough.

“My dam trusted you,” Bylgja says at last. “I cannot ask him personally, but...” He moves his arm across in a swift sweep and the ice crumbles back into the ground it came from. Loki sags, his hand coming up automatically to brush across his cuts. A swift application of a little magic and they seal up. At least now he knows _that_ will still work. 

“Thank you for believing me,” he says. 

“Perhaps.” Bylgja narrows his eyes. “If true, then...” He sighs, but does not elaborate. 

“I...” Thinks are very... awkward. Loki does not know quite what to say or do, an unfamiliar feeling. It’s strange to find someone so hard to read. A quiet and contemplative individual, one of few words, that’s the impression he’s got in the past few days, but it doesn’t help him any in making sure he’s convinced of Loki’s story. “How do you know what Aesir magic is like anyway?” he asks, for lack of anything else. And he _is_ curious.

It takes a little while for the Jotun to decide to answer, but eventually he does. “I saw them when Odin took the city.”

“But you weren’t a soldier.” This much Loki is already confident of. And he _has_ been wondering, and worrying... “Did they... kill those that weren’t soldiers?” He hates how tremulous his own voice sounds. 

“If it pleased them, as it often seemed to.” There is little emotion in Bylgja’s voice, but Loki feels ill anyway. Perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation, when seen from the Aesir side, but more likely he thinks it was simply easier for the Aesir not to be too picky. He has some experience of the chaos of battle. Easy to make mistakes. Easy not to care about making them, or avoid thinking about making them. Easy to slay monsters indiscriminately.

Which was not to say the war had not been necessary. But not that. Never that. 

How much dishonour had Asgard brought on itself in those bloody days?

He remembers the tales he was told. Laufey’s army fought for many weeks, retreating slowly back over the plains from the portal to Midgard back to his stronghold. Their numbers ever whittling down until they drew into the protection of the citadel and the temple, where Odin and Laufey fought and the war was won. The way they described it, it was a clean fight, albeit savage. No mention made of sorcerers – who must have been female, for he knows of no other male mage in Asgard’s recent history save himself. No mention of touching the city outside of that one spear-strike of Odin’s forces. 

But if that had been true, there would have been no great destruction through the city, as Loki has seen with his own eyes. It would have been confined to one area, near what are now the ruins of the palace. And it is possible that Odin knew of the _iviðjur’s_ existence and feared the presence of their powers without a counter. He may have brought sorcerers along. Loki has had few dealings with female sorcerers other than his tutors, and he rarely asked them questions unrelated to magic. He would not have known, and whatever their deeds, they would not have been fit for the sagas.

He does not want to consider that the actions of Asgard’s warriors may have been so dishonourable. Even if civilians hadn’t been slain, by accident or by intent, Asgard’s own laws say that taking women to war is forbidden, for magic is for the home and for peacetime, for women’s’ protection from men who might want to do them harm. Its use in battle is trickery, dishonourable. Sif is exempt from that law because she does not use magic. Loki is exempt because he is not female. 

His mind seems to tangle over itself in confusion. He does not want to know these things. He does not want to think about these things. 

“Of course, the Aesir would not sing tales of that,” Bylgja says, with a snort of contemptuous laughter. “How could you bear hearing their hate for us for all those years?”

Loki looks away. He does not want to face this. “I thought I was Aesir,” he says quietly.

“So you agreed with it.” He does not sound surprised, merely tired. “And it seems unlikely that at most a few weeks have changed that.”

“I don’t _hate_ any of you,” Loki says. 

“But you think us lesser. I need not know details of what they say about us to know that much. The Aesir think us little more than animals.”

“But... I know you and your family aren’t like that,” Loki protests. “And I’m sure there must be many others.”

“But in general?” Bylgja asks. 

All Loki’s clever words seem to have deserted him. He knows what Jotnar are, but he cannot think of a way to put it to the other that will not sound in some way... insulting. But even if Jotnar culture as a whole deems their malevolent qualities good and right, surely Rán’s family at least must know otherwise, or why would they act as they do? “We can only hope to rise above our natures,” he says finally, softly. “You should know; you have. And Rán, and your kin. I am... trying. I didn’t realise before why I was... wrong. But I’m here to fix it.”

Silence. He looks up to see Bylgja looking somehow... pained, though Loki can’t think why. For a moment the Jotun’s eyes close and he rubs a tired hand over his face, muttering something under his breath to himself too quiet for Loki to hear. 

“Then I suppose you think I meditate to help me control my monstrous urges,” he says. He sounds very weary. Loki can sympathise, he doesn’t want this conversation to go on any longer either. 

“Perhaps,” he says, meekly. It makes sense, now he’s brought it up. “And I suppose because it helps you with whatever magic you can do.”

Bylgja sighs. “It’s too early for this,” he mutters. Then louder, “We should return to camp.”

Loki nods; relieved the questions are over, at least for now. He’s not sure how to categorise Bylgja’s reaction to his story, though at least he thinks by the end he believed it. It’s not Rán’s open sympathy, and although he seemed angry, it wasn’t directed at _him_. Still, there were enough uncomfortable truths in what they spoke of that Loki wishes he could have kept the whole thing quiet for a little longer. 

He was not expecting the truth to have so much pain in it. 

“I suppose you will want me to tell Hrónn all this as well,” he asks. 

He thinks Bylgja winces. “Not yet,” he replies, but does not explain further. Well, if he will not insist, Loki certainly will not press. He doesn’t want to have to do this all over again before he absolutely has to. 

At least, he thinks, trying to be positive, this will make asking Bylgja questions easier. 

It’s not much consolation for so many uncomfortable thoughts, but he’ll take what he can get. And if meditation truly helps with resisting Jotnar instincts for cruelty, perhaps he will take it up again. The sooner he can master himself, _fix_ himself, the sooner he can go home. And he is suddenly desperate to do that. 

He misses when his life was simple. 

\----

Hrónn is still sleeping when they return to camp, but he wakes quickly enough when Bylgja shakes him, flailing for a moment as he gets caught in the folds of his furs. “I’m up brother, I’m up,” he says, laughing. He stretches once he’s on his feet, open and relaxed. Loki envies him. The young Jotun has few if any worries to burden his mind as Loki’s is burdened. 

“What have the two of you been up to?” Hrónn asks. “It’s barely dawn and you’re awake already.”

“Meditating,” Bylgja answers simply. 

Loki shrugs. “I am accustomed to waking early,” he says, which is somewhat true. It may be something to do with the natural currents of magic which change at each daybreak, but he has always found himself rising with the sun. Thor had done much the same, but that had more to do with his general boundless energy and the habits formed by his training schedule. 

“And I suppose I’m just going to have to get used to doing the same on this quest,” Hrónn replies with a certain amount of humour. “I should have known there were bound to be some downsides.”

After the previous events, Loki finds it hard to appreciate the younger Jotun’s good mood. Despite his instinctive horror at the thought to going over the whole story of his heritage again, he cannot help but feel a little guilty for not telling Hrónn the truth. It seems unfair for Bylgja to know and not his brother. But if the older Jotun wants Loki to keep his mouth shut for now, so be it. 

They break camp quickly after that, breaking their fast with the same curious porridge they’d eaten the day before, clearly a staple morning fare. Despite his normal chatty self, in this at least Hrónn is quiet, too busy shovelling food into his mouth to talk. Not that that lasts long. As they roll up their furs and sweep the ice flat again with careful motions, Loki resorting to his more familiar magic once more, he starts up conversation again. 

“There’s caravans that come along this road a few times every week,” he says. “So we’ll probably run into one of them sooner or later. Even though most of their goods are bound for the city there are always a few little things they’re willing to sell to travellers along the way.” He seems pleased by the idea of being able to spend a little coin. Loki presumes he’s thinking of trinkets, for it’s far too early to be replenishing their provisions. “And maybe they’ll be able to tell us some gossip from Þrymheimr.”

“I can see how that would come in useful,” Loki says, slinging his pack over his shoulder. The sun is up above the horizon now and is casting its pale light over the icy landscape, casting long shadows. The temperature does not seem to have changed much, but then he isn’t entirely sure he would be able to tell if it did. 

They make their way back to the road and continue north, with Bylgja in the lead once more. Loki wants to ask him a great many things, but for that he will require privacy if Hrónn is not to grow suspicious. Not that he minds talking to the younger Jotun at all. It is easy to let the words wash over him, a conversation that does not make much in the way of demands on his mind. Hrónn carries the bulk of it, and that is... soothing, somehow. Restful, considering all else that he has to think about. 

Perhaps he could ask Bylgja for advice on how to control his own unsavoury Jotun behaviours. It may not be entirely applicable to his tribe, but surely there are a few things he can share that might help. Loki might feel more settled in himself if he could at least make a start at self-control. If Hrónn’s hopes come to pass and they do encounter a caravan today, that might be the opportunity he seeks to pull Bylgja aside while his brother is distracted. 

Yes, he decides. That is certainly the beginnings of a plan. 

\----

Sometime after a mid-day meal consisting of dried meat and a starchy stuff that looked like bread but certainly didn’t taste like it, as luck would have it they see signs of movement in the distance. Hrónn perks up at the sight, and Loki casts a spell of far-seeing on himself so as to get a better look at the approaching forms. 

There are indeed a large number of Jotnar coming their way, accompanied by massive covered wagons each pulled by a large, long haired and many horned beast with pelts the colour of new-fallen snow. They have something of the shape of kine, but even from here he can make out great tusks jutting from their mouths and vicious spurs protruding from their ankles, half-concealed by their tousled coats. Parts of their harnesses are made of ice, but the ropes that hitch them to their burdens are too pliable for that. Loki will need to wait for a closer look to be able to work out their construction. 

“That’s certainly a caravan,” he announces, dispelling the enchantment with a wave of his hand. 

“Excellent,” Hrónn exclaims. “But how did you make it out...?”

“Magecraft,” Bylgja tells his brother, speaking for nearly the first time since they set off. Hrónn’s eyes go wide with surprise and pleasure. 

“That’s amazing! I guess that should have been obvious though, huh?”

Loki has to admit that he’s a little surprised by how enthusiastic the Jotun is being. Of course they had spoken much on the matter the day before, but that had been an academic discussion, mere curiosity than anything. There hadn’t been this... praise. Loki is not used to it. Although it is true that Thor is often quietly appreciative of the magic he offers in assistance on their quests, for propriety’s sake he does not commend Loki for it. Aside from his tutors – whom he only got in the first place because the only thing worse than a trained male mage is an _untrained_ one – he cannot think of anyone who had such complimentary things to say about his craft. It’s rather... pleasant. 

And anyway, he is amongst the Jotun now, so he doesn’t _have_ to be ashamed of it, not with it being expected of his tribe. He thinks. 

He’s less sure Asgard would see it that way, but once the rest of his character is reformed, surely they will see that this is not _really_ dishonourable for him. Or perhaps... perhaps even now he is applying evil Jotun values where good Asgardian ones ought to be. But it’s coming from Hrónn so how could that be so? And Jotun have no gender anyway so how can it be womanly without women? And... oh, he’s so confused. Such an innocently meant comment has sent his thoughts into a whirl again. 

It seems though that Hrónn has taken his silence for embarrassment at his kind words, and so says no more on the matter, though he’s still smiling wide as a half-moon. He is fairly buzzing with enthusiasm, and it seems that only the length of the distance that still separates them from the caravan prevents him from running forward to meet it. 

For Loki’s part, he keeps his gaze fixed on Bylgja’s back. Now that he knows the truth of Loki, the urge to talk to him is nearly irresistible. He needs some way of making sense of all these tangled thoughts, and Bylgja, much like Rán, seems wise enough to be able to help him get them into some kind of order. It only firms his resolution to speak to him when Hrónn is distracted by the traders. 

It takes perhaps a further half an hour of walking to reach the caravan. The lead Jotun is clad not only in the typical kilt, but also a kind of cloak that is draped and wound about his upper body as well as falling from his shoulders, all dyed in a subtle arrangement of pale yellow and cream. A golden torc nestles around his throat, and instead of the usual headdresses that cling to the skull is a narrow band of plain silver. He halts the beast of burden behind him with a gentle hand on a shoulder that is at least a head higher than him and looks over their trio. His eyes, Loki notes, are the closest to orange he has yet seen. 

“An interesting travelling party you have here,” he says, smiling. Loki is wary of him, despite the apparent friendliness. Though Hrónn isn’t acting like there is anything to fear, these are still strange Jotnar. Though in merchants malevolence is more likely to show itself in inequitable prices than violence.

“We’re just escorting our friend Lopt home,” Hrónn replies. “Although right now our current aim is to see what you have for sale.”

The other Jotun’s smile widens, though this is hardly surprising given his profession. “We always welcome valued custom,” he says. “And we are in no great hurry, so please feel free to walk among us and peruse our wares. We are happy to wait.”

“Thank you,” Hrónn says, and is immediately off round the side of the wagon, disappearing out of sight. Bylgja and Loki follow rather more slowly, allowing Loki to see that instead of wheels the transport is mounted on runners formed from ice. It is a sleigh, not that he has ever seen one before outside of pictures in books. Asgard has no winter, and hence no need for such a vehicle. 

“You aren’t worried about him running off alone like that?” Loki asks, as they make their way along the line of the caravan. Copying the action of their leader, the other Jotnar have stopped their sleighs and are relaxing, talking amongst themselves and regarding the newcomers with interest. It sets Loki on edge. 

“There is no danger here,” Bylgja replies. “Except perhaps the danger of spending all his coin.”

Loki feels less than confident, but he is willing to take the Jotun’s word for it. “I wanted to talk to you anyway,” he says, continuing at Bylgja’s patient nod. “It’s just... well, I was hoping you could give me some advice. Concerning what we discussed this morning.” 

For a moment there is no reply. Then Bylgja motions for them to move away off the road, heading away from the caravan so that they can’t be overheard. Once they are a far enough distance away he speaks.

“You came here to learn the truth of who and what you are. Of course I will answer your questions. Merely ask.”

“In Asgard...” Loki hesitates, but these are things he must know. No point in holding back, even if it is awkward. “Magic is for women. But Jotnar have no women, no men, only yourselves.”

“Ourselves,” Bylgja corrects gently. Loki can’t quite keep from wincing, even though it’s the truth. 

“So where do you hold magic’s place to be?” he finishes. 

The Jotun – the _other_ Jotun, Loki forces himself to think, knowing he is being foolish in his avoidance – considers the question. “Male, female... understand these are strange concepts to us. We act as our personalities dictate. Magic is for anyone who can wield it, and they may turn it to what use they desire. The _iviðjur_ have warriors, healers, craftsfolk... each as their talents lie.”

“I look male to the Aesir, and that’s how I was brought up,” Loki explains. “That’s how they think of me. I know much of my character is wrong by any standard, and I’m going to fix that, but I can’t not use magic. It’s part of me, it’s like breathing. And I don’t... I don’t know how to reconcile the two.”

Bylgja breathes out, a long, slow sigh. “What makes you so certain Asgard’s standards are all standards?” he asks. Loki frowns, confused. “What makes you think you are ‘wrong’?”

“Honour is not subjective,” he replies, angry for reasons he can quite put into words. “Right actions are right. Magic is only different because I don’t fit into a... a category! It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t act as a warrior should! That I am a coward, and a liar, and untrustworthy!”

“ _Some_ things are not subjective. Murder, rape, other crimes that all the Nine Worlds condemn. But honour?” Bylgja shakes his head. “Asgard’s honour is straightforward battle, glorious death. It is that by a quirk of birth some must be this thing and some must be that thing. It is brash, it is arrogant. But there are other ways to be that are just as honourable. All the realms hold honour differently.”

What? This makes no sense at all. Honour is honour, it isn’t this... this _malleable_ thing that can change depending which of Yggdrasil’s branches you stand on! If that was so how could anyone be sure of anything? How could anyone know the right way of acting? Surely Bylgja is wrong. Mistaken. Oh, Loki is sure he means well by his words, but no doubt he is shaped by Jotun ideals, and even if he claims that honour is meaningless it’s plain he and his family still abide by most of what Asgard holds right. Well, how could they not, right is right is right, and that’s the end of it. Other cultures may have strange, wrong-headed ideas – for though he has read widely he confined himself to magic rather than politics and ideals and so cannot say if this is true or not – there is a reason that Asgard rules the Nine. It is only the memories of the war that make Bylgja says such things, and that is understandable, and forgivable. 

It is not helpful though. It is nothing he wanted to get out of this conversation. 

“You are wrong,” he says firmly. “And even if you were not, I am sure all the realms hold the evils that plague Jotnar nature to _be_ evils. Laufey’s war is testament enough to that, not to mention what he did to Fárbauti. That is why it’s so important I learn how to control myself. You _know_ that, you must!”

“Laufey’s actions do not reflect the rest of us,” Bylgja says sharply. “Thankfully very few of us are like him.”

“He is King, how can he _not_ reflect you?” Loki asks, confused. “To be King is to embody the people.”

There is silence. Bylgja seems lost for words. Finally he says, “I am sorry. I was wrong to bring this up so soon. There is enough that plagues your mind without any new concepts that I might introduce.”

It is an apology that Loki is welcome to accept. It clears the air, and so means that he may sweep away Bylgja’s confusing ideas to where their wrongness will not bother him. He nods and, thinking their conversation over, turns back towards the line of sleighs. 

“Lopt, wait,” Bylgja says, stopping him. “May I at least ask one thing of you?” 

“I suppose.” Provided it is reasonable, he is willing enough to do it. Rán’s family have done much for him since coming to Jotunheim, and he _is_ grateful. 

“We will meet many Jotnar on our journey. Judge their actions with an impartial eye. See for yourself whether Asgard’s tales of monsters are unvarnished truth.”

What he will find seems to Loki to be self evident. Thus there is no harm in agreeing to what Bylgja wants. “I will do as you ask,” he replies. 

They head to find Hrónn in silence. Loki’s heart is heavy, and his thoughts as disordered as ever. Is the truth really worth this price? This pain? Yet it is a truth of Yggdrasil that anything of great worth cannot be won but by sacrifice. This is his, and he can bear it, for he has been raised a prince even if his blood eventually proves to be less noble. 

There is a long way still to go.


End file.
